Chapter 9 What’s so Mellow about Melodrama?

“This is a sign,” Beau proclaimed as Roger followed Nacho to the kitchen. “Tia is just the harbinger. Our comfortable womb’s water has broken, the contractions are about to start, and we’re all about to get squeezed out into the hard, cruel world. If we try to fight it, we’ll just drown or strangle. It’s go or be gone. The only question is where. Maybe Canada. I’m tired of this country. What’s not to love about a country where the police are called Mounties. It makes breaking the law a special event! ‘Halt and assume the position!’ the Mountie would order. Maybe I should go there and start a life of crime. Here the most risqué criminal activity is trying to sneak a peek at a policeman’s ball without buying a ticket. There, you can be strip-searched by a Mountie. I can be investigated by an undercover Mountie. I wonder if Mounties have balls and what the punishment for unauthorized attendance to a Mountie’s ball might be? I can travel to Canada and undertake a quest to find out. It would be better than sitting around here waiting for the end.”

 

Aunt May set down her glass. “Beauregard, I have warned you about making a spectacle of yourself. The Claybrooks may be many unsavory things, but public spectacles they are not, nor have ever been. If you continue in this manner, you will see the back of me and if you believe I will nurse your hangover on the morrow, you are sadly mistaken.”

 

Beau took a breath, but instead of calming himself, he began to hyperventilate. His eyes bulged and his tongue began to wave with only small gasps escaping. He was preparing to scream his way to queendom come until the men in white suits came for him.

 

I grabbed his hand and squeezed, then patted his head, hoping the sensations might break the spell. “Beau, honey,” I said, “you’ve gotten your panties in such a bunch that they are cutting off circulation to your brain. Have you noticed how high up on the globe said country is located? Think snow, my southern dingbat, think lots and lots of snow.”

 

It seemed to work a bit. While he didn’t calm, Beau stopped preparing to stroke out as he considered my words. He brightened. “Well, then Mexico or Hawaii . . . a beach town where I can sit back and sip tropical drinks and ask the local boys to rub my body all over with tanning oil and offer to provide a service in return.”

 

“Hmmm . . . problem there, sugar thighs,” Roger chimed in, returning to the table. “You have reached an age and a, shall we say, girth that is not comfortably compatible with beachwear, be ye viewer or viewee. Unless you do kaftans, sunglasses, and head scarves, it will end in pain for all. If you go out on a beach with any part of your alabaster white, cream puff of a body exposed, I’m afraid you will not be attracting young native boys. Captain Ahab looking for the great white whale maybe, but the only poking you’ll get there is a harpoon—and I’m not speaking euphemistically.”

 

Now usually when someone, particularly Roger, made a comment about Beau’s age, absence of muscle tone, or lack of sexual magnetism, he would lash out with a verbal blow capable of maiming small children at fifty paces. Tonight, however, instead of responding, Beau put his forehead on the table covered his head with his arms, and wailed, “You are right! It’s hopeless. There’s no place to go and no way to stay. I might as well drink myself to death.” He proceeded to sob, body and soul wracking wails issuing in a wah-wah sound as his rocking back and forth exposed and then hid his mouth that was gaping wide, bellowing in desperate sorrow.

 

We all stared, stunned. We were used to sniping and verba jousting—that was the usual sport we used to pass the time. Of course, we could be serious and even empathetic when circumstances required. At the loss of a job, boyfriend, or dream, we could and did offer a shoulder to cry on and a ‘there, there,’ with the best. That is what friends do, after all. Over the years, each one of us has taken a shift as either shoulder or town-crier. This, however, was different. This was a serious melt down and we all knew from personal experience that the little crack that started the jag was not the cause nor the beginning. No, when the reaction was this visceral, the crack just showed the way in, the final small tap that followed a sustained pounding, setting the stage for this evening’s entertainment. The crack was small, but underneath . . . Child, there was nothing shallow or nice. Tia’s imminent departure may have been a last shove that pushed Beau over the edge, but he had been inching up to peer over the lip of this particular trauma for some time.

 

I looked at The Boys, questioning. They looked back and shook their heads quickly. I knew they had plenty of experience dealing with such explosions, but we shared the belief that there was little to gain and a lot to lose when trying to reason with someone as lubricated as Beau. The best thing to do, they have told me when the subject came up, was to talk the little lamb off the edge one way or another and then put them to bed. Then, the next day, when the weeper had the brain cells to bend to the task, see if they still wanted to work on their issues. Usually, once the liquor was gone and the moment had passed, the desire to fix the underlying issue went the way of the dodo. The driving desire was to forget the previous night’s mess as quickly as possible. Reminding or trying to continue any work put in the night before was only cause for resentment.

 

Aunt May snapped her fan closed and stood. “Beauregard,” she commanded, “it is time for you to go home. I shall accompany you.” Beau did not look up, though his sobs and moans increased in depth and volume. He wasn’t going anywhere.

 

Aunt May looked down at him a moment. “Beauregard, you are creating a spectacle like a low-class drunkard. I certainly do not presume to tell you how much to imbibe, but I do insist you maintain your decorum. You put me in mind of Judson Hollingsworth, my very first. We both went to the spring cotillion, but he spent more time at the punch bowl than on the dance floor. By the time I dragged him out to the gazebo, he was a mite wobbly. He did seem to rally as I guided him in my preferred direction. However, while consummating our act, the liquor got the best of him and he exploded all over my new gown. I had hoped for an explosion but was setting my sites lower than his mouth. Since then, I have never abided a man who allows his consumption to dictate his actions. And now, it is time for you to leave.”

 

When Beau didn’t move, but continued to wail, Aunt May nodded her head. “Very well. Then I shall leave alone. Please do not call if this evening ends in a stay with the police. It may be the best thing for you in this condition. I shall see you tomorrow.” She looked around at all of us. “I apologize for my nephew. Thank you for your hospitality. I hope to see you again soon.”

 

With that, she put her fan in her little purse, straightened her hat, and made for the exit. At the curtains, she stopped to allow an enormous brick wall of a woman to enter. Then, she stepped through and was gone.

 

I quickly began to review our options. Somehow, we had to get Beau to either calm down or go home before Nacho came rolling out to toss him or even banish him for a while—which would be Beau’s version of a suspension from a professional sports team. I couldn’t think of a way to convince Beau to go home. I had even less idea of how to get him home if he could be convinced. He lived too far to walk—in his condition, the next table was too far to walk. Driving was out of the question—we had all walked, so no car was available. A cab was not an option. Beau was a puker, and every cabbie in Magawatta knew it—one of the dangers of a small town. I looked around. Beau began to moan through his sobs, his whole body shaking with misery. Revelers at other tables were beginning to notice. Jackie sidled up to see what the fuss was and that foretold the coming of Nacho post-haste. This was quickly spinning into a very unpleasant scene.

 

At this moment, Foxy strolled up, leisurely twisting a long, dark cigarette into his onyx holder. “My goodness but our lady Tia reached new heights of the sublime, don’t you think? What a ride she offers with The Moon is Bright. My very soul is fed by her.” He lit the cigarette. Foxy is the only person I have ever known who could use a cigarette holder with no sense of pretense or airs—it was simply how one smoked such an exotic twist. “Now, my dearest sweet meats, which one of you goslings can explain her comment before the show that she is taking flight?”

 

This question brought on a new fit of wails from Beau. A look of concern crossed Foxy’s face. He looked around the table, quickly took in our expressions, nodded to himself, and sat down next to Beau. He then laid a heavily be-ringed hand on Beau’s head, stroking it gently. “Dear boy,” his deep voice murmured, “look at me.”

 

To our amazement, Beau stopped his moans and wails and raised his tear-streaked, snot-crusted face to look into Foxy’s eyes. True emotion is never movie quality, it almost always involves unbecoming liquids oozing from inappropriate orifices. Foxy, with a look so tender, ran a hand down Beau’s cheek and cupped his chin, then gave a small smile. “Poor boy. I have just the thing.”

 

Not breaking eye contact with Beau, Foxy spoke to Jackie quietly. “May I have a small glass of tonic water, no ice, as quickly as your lovely legs can bring it?”

 

Jackie took off at a run and was back faster than I knew was possible. He placed the glass next to Foxy.

 

“Thank you, my young studlet. You are as efficient as you are beautiful and were I but a few years younger . . . But back to business.” Reaching into an inner pocket, he pulled out a delicate silver pillbox and a miniature vial which he lay on the table. “Open your mouth, my dear,” he said quietly to Beau, who did so without question. Foxy opened the pillbox and took out a small lavender pill.

 

“Lift up your tongue.” He gently placed the pill under Beau’s tongue. Closing Beau’s mouth, he turned to the table, pulled a tiny cork from the mouth of the vial, and shook three drops into the tonic water. The liquid seemed to shimmer and took on a golden hue. Foxy handed the glass to Beau.

 

“Now, hold your breath and drink this down. A wonderfully talented, extremely mysterious voodoo priestess gave me this many years ago as a thanks for a special boon I was able to perform for her. It has the remarkable ability to instantly bring one back to the essentials of life—to know and feel the utmost gratitude for the simplest things—the breath that fills our lungs, the sun that warms our body on this day, and how splendid it is to be allowed to share even a moment with those around us in this path through the garden. Drink, my crumb cake. Drink.” And Beau drank. We all stared and as the glass emptied, it seemed as if a glow filled him like he had swallowed a flashlight. A silly smile spread across his face. “Ah . . . ” He sighed and put the glass down. “Thank you, Foxy. I feel . . . well, actually, I feel wonderful! I don’t know what was upsetting me so. Everything is going to be all right. Look at all the time I did get to spend with Tia. Besides, just because she is leaving, doesn’t mean she won’t come back or someone even more amazing may rise from the ashes. Don’t they say that a door never shuts but another one opens? This boy’s glass is not going to be half-empty any more. It’s half-full . . . and getting fuller all the time.” He looked around. “And I love all you guys. Really, really love you.”

 

Roger moaned, “Half-full of pure crap. What is that stuff, Foxy? Saccharin-laced Cream of Homily? If it doesn’t wear off quick, I’m getting the fuck out of here. My stomach can’t take it.”

 

Timmy glared at him. “Shut your face. It got him over his upset. Which would you rather, homily or howling?”

 

“Dinner and a show for me any day of the week.” Roger grinned. “But I must admit it will keep us from getting the heave-ho from Nacho.”

 

Suddenly, a shadow covered the table. We looked up. Blocking the patio lights, a large woman stood solid and immovable as a granite cliff and glared down at us like a medieval stone gargoyle. Muscular arms crossed her massive chest. She was not smiling. She looked as if she never had smiled and if she tried, her cheeks would crack, probably releasing some type of poisonous fumes. Encased in black leather, her dark hair pulled back tightly into a pony tail, she did not exude sexy dominatrix. Looking at her, one was grabbed by an overwhelming desire to look and to be anywhere else. She loomed over the table, ignoring everyone but Roger, who she fixed with an emotionless gaze that could pierce metal. I fervently hoped he had not done or said something to offend her, as I was fond of Roger and had no doubt that he would soon be little more than a memory if he had been foolish enough to poke this particular bull.

 

Roger looked at her and smiled. “Ah, P. Thanks for coming so quickly. Something needs doing.”

 

She nodded, but did not reply.

 

Roger gestured to the table. “P, this is everyone. Everyone, meet Petunia.”

 

Beau giggled as he looked up at her, not noticing he was treading on dynamite. “Petunia! And what a dainty little flower—”

 

The behemoth reached out her hand, laid it atop Beau’s head, and began to squeeze. Instantly, his mouth opened and his eyes grew very wide. They might have even bulged a little, from the pressure being applied to his skull.

 

In a soft, gravely, almost bored voice, Petunia spoke to Beau. “Let’s play a little game, you and me. You keep talking and if I’ve heard the particular stupid joke you are about to make less than 500 times, then I’ll let you live. If not, I will twist your silly head off your neck and shove it so far up your ass, you’ll see what you had for lunch. Now, if you want to play, keep talking.”

 

Beau said nothing, but his eyes spoke volumes, each one a tome of why he did not now or ever want to play that game or in any other way, displease her.

 

Foxy spoke up, “I am afraid I must shoulder much of the blame for Beau’s outburst, dear lady. Just before you arrived, I provided a relaxant to our friend, which has the unfortunate side effect of slowing the mind but not the mouth. He is not always so inopportune.”

 

Turning her attention to Foxy, the colossus released Beau’s head and nodded. “All right, Foxy. He didn’t know I was coming, so I’ll let it slide,” she looked at the rest of us and stated clearly, “this once.”

 

I was amazed. I had lived in Magawatta for years and had never heard of, much less seen this walking wall of muscle. Yet, she obviously knew Foxy. Was there anyone in this town who Foxy didn’t know?

 

Roger stood and motioned with his head to the lady, who was again glaring at us, flexing and cracking her knuckles. “Come on, P, we need to talk to Nacho. There’s a bit of slime that needs watching and perhaps a bit of interaction. I figured you might like that.”

 

I was wrong. She could smile. An evil grin slashed across her face and her eyes lit in anticipation. I struggled not to immediately curl into a fetal position. My legs instinctively crossed tightly for protection. “Mmm,” she said, “you always know how to make my day. Let’s go.”

 

Roger took a step toward the kitchen, then turned back to Foxy. “Please do something with that,” he pointed at Beau, “before I get back. If not, I may have to do something I’ll regret in the morning, and you know how much I hate regrets.”

 

Foxy smiled benignly at Roger. “No need to worry, rough stuff. This phase doesn’t last long, just a few minutes of honey. Then he should ease into a mild euphoria. My doctor friend likened it to a combination of a teensy lobotomy and an ever-so-slight electroshock treatment, with none of the unpleasant side effects. Of course, I had hoped it would offer wonderful recreational applications. To my regret, it did not. This potion somehow changes both the perception of the world as it enters the brain and the internal connections. The dear boy only sees happy things and everything he sees makes him happy.”

 

Roger nodded and continued toward the kitchen, Petunia rumbling close behind.

 

Foxy sighed and continued, “The essence of a good recreational drug, I do believe, is to see what you always see, but play with how you make sense of it. The same information comes in and it attempts to take its usual journey. However, somehow, the path to Granny’s house has been altered. Either it looks or feels like a whole different thing or instead of taking you to Granny’s, it takes you to a new and very odd place. There is a delightful confusion between input, former understanding, and the new pathways that induces the joyous internal roller coaster which makes the ride worth the price of admission. This elixir mysterioso offers no ride, no bending of inputs or destination to my infinite regret. However, it works brilliantly on problems such as the one currently bedeviling dear Beau ever so quickly and efficaciously. There is even no need to send the dear boy home. He should soon be back to abnormal, if a bit on the quiet and sleepy side. Now, as I was asking . . . what’s the tea with Tia?”

 

I held my breath and looked at Beau, but Foxy’s potion continued to work its magic. Timmy spoke up first, “It looks like Tia has found another romance online. This one is promising to build her a night club in Tallahassee, and she is planning to leave after the show to oversee the building of Tia’s Tallahassee House of Fire with her new love, William Franklin.”

 

Beau interjected, “No. William Bonney Franklin. I remember because of Bonny Franklin, the actress.”

 

Timmy started to hum Lookin for love in all the wrong places and Foxy looked around the table. “Perhaps I am inaccurately reading something into your visages, but I feel there is a bit of free-floating déjà vu accompanying this story and our empressaria.”

 

Beau gave a dopey smile. “We don’t know it will turn out badly. Maybe it all works out this time. Just like the movies—big screen kiss and fade to happily, happily, happily ever after. Big time love.” He fluttered his eyes and smiled, drifting off into his fantasy.

 

I didn’t know how much more of this alternate Beau I was going to be able to stand. “Not likely, sunshine. Tia may be flighty, but there are two things you can take to the bank with our lady. The first is that she can do things to a song no one else can even think of. The second is that her taste in men, at least since the legendary—”

 

“Near mythical,” Timmy interjected.

 

Beau giggled. “Perhaps fictional.”

 

“Señor del Fuego,” I continued, “is consistently and remarkably bad.”

 

“We might as well start a collection now,” Timmy said. “You know she’ll need at least a ticket home, and if it turns out like last time—”

 

“Last time?” Foxy asked.

 

“A couple of years ago,” I started, “Tia met some manly man online who convinced her he had a luxurious hunting lodge nestled within a vast forest preserve in the wilds of Oregon.”

 

“A wondrous fairyland of moss and streams and darling little woodland creatures is how she described it,” Timmy said.

 

“And all this enchanted forest lacked was a queen,” I continued.

 

Foxy smiled. “Ah, and that was to be Tia’s role.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

“And would I be correct in guessing that the estate was not precisely as verdant as claimed?”

 

Timmy shook his head. “Hope springs eternal, but that time, the woods were scrub oak. The streams were sewage runoff. The lodge was a camper parked behind an abandoned saw mill. And the only hunting was the psycho bear who thought our Tia had ‘real purty lips’.”

 

“He did have a knack for story telling when drunk and online,” I interjected. “He had to keep it clean, because he was in the public library. The library had an extensive collection of fantasy romance books and he would quote long speeches delivered by valiant heroes pining for their far away loves. Tia is not a reader, as we all know, and she did not recognize the style. She did not recognize any of the passages. She believed he was making up these diatribes on the spot, so she thought—”

 

“She had found her knight,” Foxy finished.

 

Cosmo was amazed. As a previously solitary beast, he had never been attracted to talking to people online. He didn’t want to talk to anyone through any medium. Since he had sobered up, he was only taken with relationships in the real world. He could not fathom such behavior from anyone and had certainly never heard of Tia being so besotted. We did not speak of Tia’s travails with men—one does not talk of a friend’s foibles for no purpose. We had all hoped that Tia’s misadventure was not to be repeated and certainly didn’t want to either gossip or encourage through conversation. Now that the story was being told, Cosmo had to know the conclusion.

 

“So, what did you do?” he asked.

 

Beau smiled, both at Cosmo’s obvious captivation and at the memory of Tia. “I got a collect call one night. The psycho bear passed out, so Tia slipped out and walked to a phone. You know my telephone number is very simple, and it was the only one she could remember. She filled me in on the basics. She wasn’t quite sure what to do. I told her to call back in a day and we’d have a plan.”

 

“We all chipped in,” I said. “The next time she called, Beau told her we would come and get her. She wouldn’t let anyone go but Roger, so he went.”

 

Roger was just returning to the table, Petunia nowhere to be seen. He took a pull on his beer and looked at our questioning faces. “Petunia had to run some errands. She’ll be back.”

 

Timmy said, “We’re telling Foxy and Cosmo about Tia’s adventure along the Oregon trail.”

 

“Why did she only want Roger?” Cosmo asked.

 

Roger smiled. “Tia and I go back a ways. I got there in the evening and pulled up outside the ‘estate’. Dummy was passed out again, so Tia had no difficulty leaving when I whistled and off we went to an elegant dinner, a night in a four-star hotel, and a first-class flight back here.”

 

“But what did you have planned if he wasn’t passed out?” Fox asked.

 

“I have found,” Roger grinned, “that very few people can stand against truly crazy. Something on a cellular level recognizes and retreats. It’s my secret weapon. I drop the guise and throw myself with heart and soul into madness. I can do crazy, that’s no problem. It’s this ‘be polite and don’t bite’ crap that is a challenge. I haven’t had to drop the guise and let my eyes roll back often, but it has always worked. I was ready and I knew that there was no way Mr. Whiskers was going to want to stand between a madman and his Tia. I knew that even that brain-dead beer bear would be able to look into my eyes and see his expiration notice. So, I wasn’t too worried. I was actually a bit disappointed that I didn’t get to slip the bonds of sanity and go doo-wackity on his ass.”

 

Foxy clapped his hands. “Ah, Roger, you do have a streak of chivalry beneath your jaded hide. I never thought anything else. But, my sweet meats, have you not a tickle of fear that this latest adventure may be a bit tenuous and well . . . troubling? What is that amusing little ditty you boys say about doing the same thing again?”

 

Timmy smiled. “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing and expecting different results. Every drinker has clutched at that one . . . ‘this time I’ll be able to just drink two.’ We all want to drink like a normal person.”

 

“Ha!” Roger snorted. “You never drank like a normal person, Timmy. You drank like a black hole. Anything that came near you got sucked in. Hell, if I could have convinced you my cock was full of booze, we might have been married.”

 

Timmy shot Roger the bird. “Even when I was comatose, I wasn’t drunk enough to pleasure you, you old goat. The only reason I ever hung around you was to make me look better. Hell, next to you I looked classy when I was doing the breaststroke in my own puke.”

 

Foxy held up a hand. “As visually enticing as this conversation has become and as graphically interesting as the upcoming repartee promises to be, I must beg of you to return to my original question. Do you not fear this new foray of Tia’s may be ill-advised?”

 

“We have that feeling, yes, Foxy,” I replied. “We have cautioned Tia. But what can we do? Every human being has the right to fuck up in their own way at their own insistence. And it is the duty of a true friend to advise, contemplate, but not order. We are not parents or the posse, we are her friends. So, we’ll let her go. If it works out, we’ll go to the wedding. And if it doesn’t, we’ll ride to the rescue.”

 

Beau looked up and grinned and in his best Lilly Tomlin, he said, “And that’s the truth.” He then blew a huge raspberry. “Because she is our Tia . . . and always shall be and we . . . Oh look, here comes Her Highness now.”

 

As Tia walked up, Foxy embraced her. “TiaRa, my exquisite angel, your show was such sublime manna I was, until moments ago, preparing for the rapture. However, I have heard that you, like the mythical elemental foxfire, have brought your brilliance for the briefest of moments and are preparing to wink out, reappearing in another realm. Their blessing is our devastation, my dear. A devastation from which I shall not quickly recover, but let us not grieve as you leave, let us drink to your adventure!” Foxy called out as Jackie zipped past, “Young studlet!” Jackie instantly halted and came to attend to Foxy’s needs. Foxy was a very good tipper, especially to the young and tight.

 

“Has this establishment any Champagne? And yes, I do mean Champagne, from the most perfect region of France?”

 

“Gee, Foxy, I don’t think so. The only thing I ever saw that said champagne around here had a plastic pop top. Even I wouldn’t drink it, so I wouldn’t dare offer it to you.”

 

“A pity, but not unexpected! Then we shall toast as the Greeks do, as we have a historical connection to things Greek. Ouzo—three bottles of your best, if you please, and glasses of ice all around, plus a bucket of ice for the table. I firmly believe that the only way to drink Ouzo is to pour it over cracked ice and drink it as it changes from clear to cloudy . . . for that is what it does to us as we imbibe! Away, young inspiration, before I forget my age and my marriage.”

 

Jackie trotted off and Foxy beamed at Tia. Tia, however, did not beam back. She attempted a smile, but it cracked on her face and melted down to deep dismay, well-seasoned with seething, and brought her from her feet to a chair, sitting stiffly on the edge, ready to leap into fury, hands laced before her, as she tried to keep her fingers from curling into claws and flying at some wrongdoer or innocent bystander. As Foxy had controlled the interaction up to this moment, no one had noticed Tia’s state. Mamma was not happy. You could almost see the steam rising off her white-hot rage. This was turning into a night for much ados about something.

 

In spite of the danger, I spoke up, deciding that it was better to risk the response than to risk the explosion certain to happen if something did not prick the boil quickly, “What’s wrong, Tia? I’m not the psychic I once was, but something seems amiss.”

 

Tia looked at her hands, willing them to stay put and held her voice low and steady, at a cadence that told anyone with a mind and an ear that if it got any louder, it would go directly to full-on, screaming abandon with no stop in between to smell the flowers or gather momentum. The momentum was there, boiling, eagerly waiting for permission to burst forth and eviscerate all that stood near.

 

“The third set is for amateurs. I don’t expect much during that set because the babies are so young and untested. However, the second set is supposed to be for professionals, and nothing but professionals. Professionals who know how to perform and how to behave. They are not supposed to need me to supply a tit or a teaching. My job is to schedule before and introduce during. Why then do the so-called professionals in this half horse town insist on behaving like this was the first time they ever donned a wig? Every performer, good, bad, or in between . . . boy, girl, or in between . . . from anywhere during any era who has ever put their foot upon a stage, whether that foot was bare, slippered, booted, or bedecked in the highest and sharpest of fuck-me-pumps, knows that no matter what happens, the show must go on! On the evening of Señor del Fuego's tragic accident, I had a show. I went on. The evening I slipped in the puddle of that unfortunate boy’s first adventure with White Russians and twisted my ankle so badly I could not walk, I went on. If I broke my arm, my leg, my heart . . . I would go on. These small-town divas break a nail and they throw a fit and refuse to perform. Worse than refuse, they make themselves incapable of performing, so I cannot explain the basics to them. I don’t know which I disdain more—a queen who cannot sparkle under duress or a queen who cannot hold whatever they are inopportune enough to swallow.”

 

I smiled, trying for a helpful look. “Someone a bit under the weather?”

 

“Under the weather? She is under the table! Weeks ago, after interminable badgering and begging, I gave that hippo in heels a single song in the penultimate slot. It is the sweet spot, the best spot in the entire evening, with a short song from me just before to set it up and my final song of the evening right after, if needed. I would never have given it to such an unfortunate dresser, particularly had I known it was to be my last show. However, I did not know, and her voice has been coming along quite nicely and she promised to pull in a crowd, and, well, frankly, she wore me down.”

 

“And the tension got to be too much?”

 

“She should just live in the moment, whistle a happy tune or something,” Beau suggested.

 

Roger glared at Foxy. “I thought you said it would wear off.”

 

“Give it time, dear boy. Just ignore him and stick to the problem at hand. So, my ultimate empresaria, enlighten us. Who is the transgressor and what is the transgression?”

 

Tia looked at Foxy and choked out the name, “It is Salina Svengali, that big, horse-faced girl and it seems that the real reason for the constant begging was that Miss Svengali has fallen in love . . . with an insurance salesman or something like that. He evidentially had no idea Salina was anything but a somewhat flashy dresser.”

 

“You mean she didn’t tell him she was a . . . a . . . ” Roger roared with laughter. “And he didn’t guess? So, we had two love birds sitting at a table, both busily ignoring the 10,000-pound gorilla that was sitting in the middle of the centerpiece? I can understand that. Why should she talk background when there are other more pressing issues? And him . . . he didn’t guess? What is he, blind with no sense of touch? I mean, my gawd . . . a stone lion could tell that was no woman. I’m thinking he didn’t want to know. Don’t ask, don’t tell, don’t say you’re a guy, and what the hell.”

 

“As usual, Roger, you miss the point,” Timmy said. “What difference should it make what equipment she has and why should she have to start a relationship that may be nothing more than a quick fling with an emotionally-loaded issue? She should get what she can while she can, if that’s what she wants. Then, if things work out, it shouldn’t matter.”

 

Roger opened his mouth, eyes gleaming with the joy of a sure argument. However, at that point, Jackie arrived with the Ouzo. The glasses filled with crushed ice were placed in front of each of us. Foxy opened a bottle and quickly poured large dollops of the clear, deadly liquid. As the Ouzo hit the ice, opalescent fingers spun through the glass, quickly turning each drink into a swirling infusion beckoning with dangerous promise. Foxy held his glass high. “I’m sorry there has been a little problem, but let it not stand in the way of our saluting dear Tia. May you shine your glory wherever you go, and may those who partake in your heavenly rite understand how blessed they are for receiving such a gift.”

 

Cosmo and Timmy raised their sparking waters to join in the toast. We all held our Ouzo up, watching it turn completely white, waiting for Tia. Tia did not look up. She looked at her glass, then at us, then back at the glass, grabbed it, downed the undulating liquid in a single gulp, grabbed the bottle, poured another full to the brim and, without the slightest pause for the liquor to cool or change, slammed the drink down. This was not drinking for the experience or the pleasure. This was hammering to be hammered, to kill enough of the screaming internal committee to allow a single thought to break through and suggest a direction.

 

Tia looked around and growled through gritted teeth. “It seems that Miss Svengali had planned to use this evening as her way of telling her man of her surprise package. Earlier this evening, over a romantic dinner, the secret was revealed. The man behaved as men who want to cling to a pretense of deniability can always be expected to behave. Not being able to claim he was drunk or in the dark, he would have to admit his true feelings or hit the road. Of course, what he hit was not the road—he hit her. He punched her, dumped her onto the floor of the restaurant, and left, of course without paying the bill. Salina struggled back into her chair, opened her purse, summoned the waiter, cancelled the food order, tripled the drink order, and began to pour liquor and pills down her throat until it was time to leave for the show. She arrived here about twenty minutes ago, staggered to her dressing table, pulled out a small flask, quickly downed three shots, and passed out cold. One moment she was gulping, then the next, her head slammed into the table so hard that if she hadn’t been wearing that huge bouffant wig, her head would have split like a melon. I had to call the paramedics. She just made a grand exit, spewing joy for all to catch.”

 

Her story told, Tia grabbed the bottle and a third drink hit the ice and then her mouth with no pause for consideration. She continued, “Now, I completely understand her upset. That is her absolute right. However, every boy who has ever even considered putting on a dress knows that it is rarely met with great glee by many, particularly those closest to the closet. I have no issue with her actions . . . it is the timing that was puerile. How could she do such a thing on the night of a show? It is rank amateurism and that I cannot abide. And now this show is in peril . . . ”

 

And finally, with the greasing provided by the Ouzo, the explosion began to break through the ice, Pandora’s box letting lose its host of horrors before our eyes. Tia’s voice began to rise in heat and volume. She began to bang the glass upon the table to emphasize each thought.

 

“This show. This last show. This show I wanted so much to be so perfect. And now, the show is totally and completely and irredeemably fucked.”

 

Time stopped. Nothing that had come before froze us like that simple last word. TiaRa never let a profanity cross her lips except in the lyrics of a song. Hearing such vulgarity uttered by Tia, while common from each of us, was like peering into a bathroom stall and seeing the Pope taking a dump. You knew such things had to happen, but somehow, you knew that your world would never be quite the same ever again.

 

Tia continued, “I was going to do Love Is Slow before and end up with 47 Bus if she was less than stellar, which would have been no surprise. It would be my one last hallelujah to leave everybody up, dancing, and happy. It was to be my perfect farewell. Now that dream is ruined. My perfect farewell is ruined. And if the ending is bad, what does that say of the beginning that follows on its heels? Why does the world conspire? I’m afraid that . . . Why tonight? Why!?”

 

Tia was pounding the glass against the table. I was amazed that it did not shatter, slicing into her hand and sending glassine knives spinning toward all gathered on the patio. Visions of bloody carnage flashed through my brain. I tried to will myself to move, to grab the glass, to grab her, but the world had slowed to a standstill and I could not move.

 

Suddenly, Roger was up and beside Tia. He grabbed her hand and took the glass from it and put it on the table. Then he pulled her to her feet and turned her firmly to look at him. Wrapping one hand around her back, he squeezed her tightly to his chest. With the other hand, he grabbed her face, held it still, and kissed her roughly—a big wet kiss right on her lips.

 

No one spoke. No one breathed. We had never seen anyone take such liberties with Tia. Roger looked deep into her eyes and said very calmly, “You look ravishing tonight, TiaRa. Absolutely flawless. You need only to stand before your audience and all will be perfection.” Then he stepped back.

 

Silence echoed.

 

Tia touched her lips.

 

Then her heart.

 

Then her hair.

 

“Perhaps . . .” she began.

 

Foxy spoke hesitantly, “I could call Suave, my dear. I’m sure my dahling would be devastated if she found that you had left, and I had failed to offer a final opportunity to share the stage with you. We have often considered having her return briefly during one of your splendid extravaganzas. I happen to know she was recently trying on her pink toreador jacket and it not only fit but looked too stunning for words. I’m sure she would swoon for this opportunity to both say farewell and tread the boards again.”

 

Tia’s eyes began to calculate, planning the new changes, seeing the new show. “I saw her in that jacket in New Orleans years ago. I had forgotten she used to headline.”

 

“Oh yes, she toured extensively. Not the devastating quality of songs you and Thumper craft, I’m afraid, but a remarkably elegant talent and always a crowd pleaser. She was high atop the golden mount of stardom when I saw her and made it my life’s goal to woo her. Thankfully, she was willing to do me the kindness of leaving the footlights when our time apart became far too painful for me to endure, but I do think she misses the life upon occasion, although she would never admit it. I believe she would positively leap at the chance to help you complete the proper minyan for your show.”

 

Tia was back in charge. “Yes, I believe that would work wonderfully. Would you call her, Foxy? Do you think she could get ready in time? We have less than thirty minutes before the set begins, and thirty minutes after that she goes on.”

 

Foxy was already dialing.

 

“Hello? Love of my life? Yes. Yes, it was absolutely wonderful. I wish you had heard it. What? No, you may not buy another sideboard. I do not care how esteemed its provenance may be. No, I did not mean it like that. Yes, we can have nice things and do have nice things, my love, it’s just that . . . Suave, my love, I am most sorry to interject, but there is a pressing matter and I am here with TiaRa. Yes . . . fine . . . yes, I will. Suave, my love! If I may just . . . There is a situation, you see. It seems that TiaRa is leaving us . . . I will tell you about that later, but for now, the issue is that this is her last show and there has been a bit of a calamity involving the penultimate performer and we were wondering if you . . . Well, that is the issue, it is in less than an hour . . . Well, I was trying to tell you. Yes, my love, I am deeply sorry for delaying you. How about that splendid toreador coat? I’m sure you can still fit into it and would look most exquisite . . . Well, if you feel the chiffon, I’m sure you know better than I. Well, bring them both, my love. Yes, the pearls are in the safe and they would be perfect . . . Yes, I’m leaving now. I will see you soon, my love.”

 

He looked up. “I believe she is more excited over this opportunity than she would have been had I let her purchase that sideboard, so I owe you a debt, TiaRa. I leave post-haste.”

 

Tia kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you, Foxy. And give your darling Suave a kiss for me. You have saved me and the show. Now I must go back and make sure there are no other catastrophes.”

 

Tia turned and looked at all of us, giving thanks without words. Then she turned to Roger, who was upending his beer, grinning at her. She touched her lips, kissing her fingers, then reached out and placed the kiss on his cheek, turned, and drifted purposefully back into the bar, heading for the backstage dressing rooms.